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Well, that's not enough information to answer the question!
Does the man look poor or oppressed?
Have I ever done anything to him that
would inspire him to attack?
Could we run away?
What does my wife
think?
What about the kids?
Could I possibly swing the gun like a club
and knock the knife out of his hand?
What does the law say about
this situation?
Does the pistol have appropriate safety built into it?
Why am I carrying a loaded gun anyway, and what kind
of message does this send to society and to my children?
Is it possible he'd be
happy with just killing me?
Does he definitely want to kill me, or would
he be content just to wound me?
If I were to grab his knees and hold on, could my
family get away while he was stabbing me?
Should I call
9-1-1?
Why is this street so deserted? We need to raise taxes, have
paint and weed day and
make this happier, healthier street that
would discourage such behavior.
This is all so confusing! I need to
debate this with
some friends for few days and try to come to a
consensus..
.................................................. ..............................

So, after landing my new job as a Wal-Mart greeter, a good find for many retirees, I lasted less than a day......

About two hours into my first day on the job, a very loud, unattractive, mean-acting woman walked into the store with her two kids, yelling obscenities at them all the way through the entrance. As I had been instructed, I said pleasantly, 'Good morning, and welcome to Wal-Mart. Nice children you have there. Are they twins?'

The ugly woman stopped yelling long enough to say, 'Hell no, they ain't twins. The oldest one's 9, and the other one's 7. Why the hell would you think they're twins? Are you blind, or just stupid?'

So I replied, 'I'm neither blind nor stupid, Ma'am, I just couldn't believe you got laid twice. Have a good day, and thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.'

He tells the sales lady, 'I would like a Baptist bra for my wife, size 34B.'

With a quizzical look the sales lady asks, 'What kind of bra?'

He repeats, 'A Southern Baptist bra. My wife said to tell you that she wanted a Southern Baptist bra, and that you ould know what she wanted.'

'Oh, yes, now I understand,' says the sales lady. 'We don't get as many requests for them as we used to. Most of our customers lately want the Catholic bra, the Salvation Army bra, or the Presbyterian bra.'

Confused, and a little flustered, the man asks, 'So, What are the differences?'

The sales lady responds, 'It's really quite simple. The Catholic bra supports the masses, the Salvation Army bra lifts up the fallen, and the Presbyterian bra keeps them staunch and upright.'

He muses on that information for a minute and says, 'Hmm. I know I'll regret asking, but what does the Baptist bra do?'

Below is an article written by Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated. He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a F-14 Tomcat.

"Now this message is for America's most famous athletes:

Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have ... John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity ....

Move to Guam

Change your name.

Fake your own death!

Whatever you do .

Do Not Go!!!

I know.

The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter S quadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach.

Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast.

Biff King was born to fly.. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting ..." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff."

Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning.

"Bananas," he said.

"For the potassium?" I asked.

"No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down."

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot, but still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was it.

A fighter pilot named Psycho ga ve me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious.

Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14.

Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks.. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us.

We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.

And I egressed the bananas.

And I egressed the pizza from the night before.

And the lunch before that.

I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade.

I made Linda B lair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that I never thought would be egressed.

I went through not one airsick bag, but two.

Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down.

I used to know 'cool'. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know 'cool'. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and Freon nerves. I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand.

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me and said he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit.

So, after landing my new job as a Wal-Mart greeter, a good find for many retirees, I lasted less than a day......

About two hours into my first day on the job, a very loud, unattractive, mean-acting woman walked into the store with her two kids, yelling obscenities at them all the way through the entrance. As I had been instructed, I said pleasantly, 'Good morning, and welcome to Wal-Mart. Nice children you have there. Are they twins?'

The ugly woman stopped yelling long enough to say, 'Hell no, they ain't twins. The oldest one's 9, and the other one's 7. Why the hell would you think they're twins? Are you blind, or just stupid?'

So I replied, 'I'm neither blind nor stupid, Ma'am, I just couldn't believe you got laid twice. Have a good day, and thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.'